


Serenata

by Arithanas



Category: Coco (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: After a hundred years, somethings remind intact.





	Serenata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neotoma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotoma/gifts).



Héctor knew very well that Imelda hadn’t forgive him; she was a woman who believed in “forgive but never forget,” and that was part of her charm. Not the biggest part, granted, but it was part of the whole. And now, Héctor had all the eternity to make her forget—or rather, make her remember.

To the rhythm of his clattering bones, Héctor traveled to the part of the Land of the Dead where Imelda spent her well-earned rest, though it was a working rest. Imelda lived in a copy of her workshop and for many of the hours between one day of the dead and the next, she worked on perfecting her art. The pleasures of the work were never denied to the beautiful Imelda.

Before turning the corner, Héctor took a moment to watch Imelda busying herself with the shoe lasts. She sat in the perpetual twilight of the Land of the Dead, knife in hand, and smoothed down the side of the last between her knees. Her hair was fixed in a high bun she hadn’t worn when they were together. The silver in her hair gave her gravitas and matched so well with the ivory of her bones that Héctor couldn’t help but like it. Death suited Imelda well.

Héctor scurried off by the side of the building, like he used to to do when he was a _chamaco_. Imelda’s mother was even more imposing than her. Héctor skull still showed the marks of his frequent meetings with the _mano_ of Imelda’s mom’s _metate_ , but she was not enough to scare a loving heart. The same way Imelda’s knife was not enough now to make his fleshless feet run cold.

Once he found the perfect place under the window, Héctor tuned his borrowed guitar and started playing lazy finger exercises. It had been too long since his fingers (or his bones, if one should be precise) practiced the first movements over the strings.

Imelda’s knife stopped when she heard the first notes. If Héctor still had a heart, it would have skipped joyfully against his ribs.

“Do you remember, ’Meldita?” Héctor whispered, placing his back against the wall. “I used to do the same thing so many years ago...”

“Too many years for you to call me ‘Meldita,’ ” she replied with scorn, but when her knife started to scrape the wood again, its rhythm matched Héctor’s guitar.

“Your mom said you would starve if you marry me.”

“And how right she was.”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Héctor exclaimed with a great smile. “While I was with you, you didn’t starve.”

“We weren’t complaining of full bellies either.”

“One of us was,” Héctor recalled with a big toothy grin.

Imelda’s big pregnant belly was the cause of her complaint. Héctor liked to tease her, telling her that she looked like a rope with a knot in the middle. Imelda laughed then; Héctor doubted she would do the same now.

“And you were to blame for that too.”

“I accept all the blame, _Imelda de mis amores_ ,” Héctor agreed. “Coco is the best thing in the world to be blamed about.”

His fingers had found their proper position and the melody became more complex. The only thing the scene lacked was the faint whiff of the kitchen. The first time they kissed, Imelda leaned out of the kitchen window at her mama’s house. She was cooking beans and epazote and, for many years after, Héctor’s heart ran like a racehorse at the first insinuation of the aroma.

“If we were then,” Héctor started the conversation again, “would you come to the window?”

“Of course,” Imelda replied, shaking the wood shavings from her skirt. “I was young and witless then. And you played guitar a lot better. ”

“So, now...”

“Now, you are lucky.” Imelda didn’t sound so happy. “I haven’t tossed this last at your head yet.”

A barking dog doesn’t bite, as the saying said. Héctor knew how lucky he was.

“Tell me, Imelda, while I was alive, did you ever regret I came to your window?”

The string of his guitar filled the silence between them. Héctor darted alarmed looks to the windowsill because the reply took two songs to come, but good things are worth waiting for.

“A difficult question,” Imelda spoke as sandpaper brushed against the shoe last. “While you were around, I wanted for many things but wished nothing else. You were enough. In those times, I didn’t regret ever coming to the kitchen window. I didn’t even regret the stains on my blouse.”

“Did I ever apologize for ruining your blouse?” Héctor asked. One of his more cherished memories was the way the fine cotton of her blouse, waterlogged by the boiling pot vapor, clung to her chest.

Imelda’s sneer tore him away from his naughty fantasies. “Did you ever apologize for anything?”

Héctor let his fingers decrease the rhythm.

“I wish, Imelda, I wish I was a better husband,” Héctor said, nodding sadly. “The husband you deserved.”

“What use is it to wish, Héctor?” Imelda’s voice sounded nearer. “You were a very painful memory for most of my life.”

Héctor lacked a proper reply for that accusation. The regret of his heart poured into the guitar in his hand. The rueful sound could make even the most cold-hearted person weep.

“Life was difficult without you, looking your smile on our little Coco each day,” Imelda said, letting her bony hand hang from the window. “I couldn’t stand the music before, because each note was a stab in my already bleeding heart.”

“Imelda...” Héctor whispered as her fingers caressed his skull.

“Héctor, you can only hate fiercely the things you have loved with the same intensity,” Imelda said, her fingers lifting a lock of his young-looking hair. “You weren’t the husband I deserved, but you were the husband I chose.”

Héctor leaned into her touch, like he had many times in his life. With care, he put the guitar on the ground and rose to meet her eyes. It was just like the first time: her beckoning at him with her extended hand, him standing shyly with his hat in the hand.

“So, you love me still.”

“ _Ay!_ I loved you all my life.” Her fingers latched onto his bony nape and pulled him closer. “But you have to win me again. I promised to be yours until death do us part...”

Héctor didn’t have a heart to feel it beat against his ribs, but when her mouth touched his, he felt his hopes soar. As he had the first time, he used his hat to shield their kiss from prying eyes.

If bliss arrives, it’s never late.


End file.
